


Joey

by BastardPrince



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, M/M, Nicknames, Sleeping Together, Soft Joseph Kavinsky, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastardPrince/pseuds/BastardPrince
Summary: “Come to bed, Joey.”Proko is impossible to resist like this, his hair mussed and sticking up, pillow lines pressed into one cheek.---Basically, I just wanted an excuse to write about Proko calling K “Joey”.





	Joey

_2:29 AM_

Prokopenko turns over and reaches out, feeling blindly for Kavinsky. He stretches his arm as far as it will go, but there’s no sign of Kavinsky’s bony warmth. This in itself is not unusual. K is often out all hours of the night, and he is not known for keeping a strict schedule. 

But K had been pretty quiet all day, so Proko had expected him to come to bed tonight. It was the days when Kavinsky was jittering with pent-up energy that he went on the warpath at night.

Deciding that he should go see where K is, Proko sits up, sniffling. His nose is always stuffy when he wakes up. 

Despite the hour, the bedroom is full of light. K had never replaced the curtains that he set fire to, so now the streetlight shines through the window all night. Proko doesn’t mind. He had never liked the pitch black anyways. 

Proko shuffles towards the edge of the bed, pulling the navy-blue checked comforter with him as he goes. Kavinsky often forgets to pay the heating bills, so the house gets chilly. He wraps the comforter around his shoulders and heads down the hall towards the stairs. 

The first floor of the house is quiet and dark except for the light spilling out of the kitchen doorway. Proko steps around Skov’s soccer bag and kicks one of his cleats out of his way. 

There are signs of the Dream Pack scattered around the house. Jiang’s MacBook is sitting in the living room charging, the tiny green light shining in the dark. The cord is stretched precariously from the low table to the nearest outlet. Proko can’t count the number of times he’s tripped over that cord. Beside Jiang’s laptop, there are some dark shapes that Proko knows are Swan’s pipe and grinder. 

There’s also a blanket of general clutter that could belong to anyone. Their dark shapes hang over the backs of chairs and sofas and crowd all the available flat surfaces. Hoodies and socks, phone chargers, piles of unopened mail, dirty dishes and empty soda cans. Proko doesn’t mind a bit of mess, but he makes a mental note to get rid of some of the literal garbage tomorrow. 

Skov and Swan went out tonight. Proko tries to remember what they said they were doing. He thinks it was something with some of the public high school kids. Who knows? Who cares? Regardless, they’ll be back tomorrow, probably bruised and hungover. 

Proko heads into the kitchen. He switches on the light over the sink and closes a couple cupboards. There’s no sign of Kavinsky, so Proko leaves, turning off the main light as he heads back into the living room. 

The comforter is slipping, so he pulls it up around his shoulders again. Proko’s legs are covered by track pants, but his bare feet are getting cold. 

He notices the basement door is slightly ajar. As soon as he opens it and starts down the stairs, Proko can hear music playing. K must be down here. 

The farther down the stairs he gets, the louder the music gets. Its eerie and sounds like it belongs with one of Kavinsky’s horror games. 

Sure enough, as he turns the corner, Proko can see the huge TV lit up with the Outlast end screen and the end credit music playing. K is passed out on the couch, head tipped back towards the ceiling, snoring gently. 

Next to Kavinsky, Jiang is sprawled over the leather recliner beside the couch, a mostly-empty 24-pack of Coors Light on the floor beside him. The empties are in a messy pile by his feet. Proko sighs. More garbage to get rid of tomorrow. 

He walks around in front of Kavinsky, who is wearing a pair of boxers and a white undershirt and still holding his X-Box controller. Proko shakes his shoulder. 

“K? K, wake up.”

Kavinsky groans and lifts his head. He drops the controller and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

He looks at Proko. He’s backlit by the TV, so Kavinsky can’t see the details of his face. Kavinsky feels a flash of anger towards Proko. He hates how vulnerable Proko is, standing there, wrapped in a blanket. And Kavinsky can’t resist this helpless creature. He hates it. 

Proko steps closer, and the look in his eyes smothers Kavinsky’s anger. 

“Come to bed, Joey.”

Proko is impossible to resist like this, his hair mussed and sticking up, pillow lines pressed into one cheek. 

Kavinsky grunts and nods. He pushes a couple empty beer cans away from him and gets up to turn off the TV. 

“Should I wake Jiang up?” Proko asks. 

“Nah. He was pretty shitfaced. Just let him sleep.”

Without the TV, the basement is pitch dark and silent. Spooked by the Outlast music, Proko heads over to K and leans against his shoulder. 

“Can we go to bed, Joey?”

“Yeah, baby.” Kavinsky yawns. 

They stumble up the stairs in the dark, Proko still leaning on K. 

When they get to the main floor, Proko steers Kavinsky into the kitchen. He turns on the faucet and picks the least cloudy glass he can find off the counter. Once it’s filled with water, he hands it to Kavinsky.

“Drink this.”

“I’m fine. Jiang drank way more of the beer.”

“Joey.”

“Seriously. I don’t need it.”

Proko frowns. 

Kavinsky sighs and takes the glass. He chugs the water and puts the glass back on the counter. 

“Happy?”

Proko nods and the boys head upstairs to K’s bedroom. 

The streetlight outside is still shining through the window, illuminating the bedsheets that are sliding off the mattress and the clothes on the floor. 

Kavinsky gets in bed and Proko follows, spreading the comforter over them both. Proko shifts until his back is pressed up against K’s chest. He presses his cold feet against Kavinsky’s bare shins. 

“Joey?”

Kavinsky hums.

“Night.”

“Good night, baby.” K presses his face into the back of Proko’s neck and exhales.

Proko shivers happily and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not continue this and write some smut where Proko calls K “Joey”. Depends if you guys like this, I guess.


End file.
